TF2 Medic's Recruitment
by Herr Doktor
Summary: ...medic lives in alternate world germany...he is...hunted by both blue...and, er...red...both sides need a medic. Naturally, because of my ingrained dislike for red team, something will happen to the reds...constructive...criticism welcome. *yawn*


To be quite frank, it was a pain to be a man of science. Nobody listened to you properly. Everyone took you for granted. You were just a doctor. Just a man holding syringes and alcohol swabs. Even if you had a morbid interest in blood and perhaps investigating whether or not you can cut through someone's spine in ten seconds, you weren't recommended to be on the battlefield.

You were a scientist. You were a minority. You were just a guy in a lab coat, standing around peering at everyone with glasses. This guise fooled many people. A doctor is a lot more than a man who pokes you with needles and tongue depressors.

For the purpose of this tale, our medic here is named Simon. Simon Cruor. Don't like the name? Talk to the syringe gun.

This takes place in Germany. This Germany doesn't in any way reflect the Germany in real life, so please do not take offense. This is an alternate dimensions created in code, developed by the Valve Gods.

In this strange German world, the men that wander around posing as doctors are usually crazy, or bloodthirsty, or they just want to see you shirtless. Disgusting. This bizarre alternate Germany was also filled with madmen. The person claiming to want to give you a vaccination may be collecting your blood for strange experiments. This was especially true for Simon Cruor, medicinal doctor, surgeon, and many other things besides. There was no way to verify these statuses, so you'd have to take the doctor's not-so-trustworthy word for it. It would be wrong to say Cruor didn't know what he was doing. He certainly knew the human anatomy. There was no doubt he could get you a cast for your broken arm, or prescribe strange, unnamed pills for your headache.

However, his heart did not lie in these jobs. Certainly he made a sparse living of it, but he really wanted action. Rumors of war circulated Germany. The doctor had no chance to be picked for any sort of draft, unless it was to play the medic who sat in a tent and waited for an injured man to run in crying. No, he didn't want to do that.

There were problems though. Cruor wasn't really making enough money to get by. He barely scraped any money on some weeks. On other weeks he was completely ignored, as there were no injuries, or another doctor was deemed saner. This was a bad development. He wasn't going to be able to live off the occasional man breaking his arm or kid getting ravaged by machinery. Maybe he should push a kid working at a canning factory into the spinning blades. If the boy survived, they would come to him.

No. That wasn't viable. He was doomed. With a sigh, Cruor adjusted his glasses and went outside. He wore a lab coat, and people threw him strange looks. There was someone staring at his back though, eyes burning into his spine. He walked down the paved path, ignoring the flaming gaze. He found himself sitting at a dirty water fountain.

People bustled around them, and Cruor unconsciously began to think about the human anatomy. It had been a while since he'd performed a surgery. He was itching to hack apart someone again. He looked at the disgusting, stagnant water in the fountain. He took out a scalpel and slit his fingertip, watching the blood drip into the water and billow outwards in dark red masses.

He felt the eyes boring into his back. His irritating stalker was still watching him, it seemed. Sighing, he turned to look at his pursuer. Mayhap it was someone who needed medical help?

It was a man with a fancy, blue, French suit. His face was masked by a ski mask type of cover. A cigarette poked out of his mouth, which was drawn into a smirk.

"What do you vant?" the medic hissed acidly. "Vell? You have followed me all around ze area, what do you vant?"

Silent, the man took out a strange metal case. Prying another cigarette from the case, he spat out the first one and lit the second one. He did not reply to Cruor. Instead, he continued to smoke, staring at Cruor and seemingly apprasing him.

Cruor stared at the man, before deciding to leave. Some French guy stalks him. So what? Cruor returned to his home and shut the door. He looked over his medical "supplies". Bonesaw, syringes, scalpels, and whatnot. All his tools lay strewn about, unused.

Now he heard a rapping at the door. He waited for the person to leave, as he was in no mood to treat anyone, but the rapping just became more insistent.

Sighing and putting on a menacing glare, he went to the door, throwing it open. He wasn't all too surprised to see the Frenchman standing there, smoking.

"Vat do you want?" the medic growled.

The Frenchman stared at him a while longer. Simon Cruor was on the verge of losing his patience as well. He was about to swing the door shut, when the Frenchman spoke.

"Simon Cruor…medicinal man and surgeon?"

"Er," Cruor mumbled. "Yes, I am. Is there a problem?" He began fingering the bonesaw he was holding. He shuffled his feet as the Frenchman reached inside his suit to draw out something.

The Frenchman suddenly pushed a letter into Cruor's face. It stuck there, held by some adhesive. Ripping it off, the medic opened his mouth to shout at the man, but he was gone, with only a flicker of light where he had been moments before.

Cruor unfolded the letter, eyes scanning across it. It was, amusingly enough, a job offer.

_Mr. Cruor:_

_ If it would so please you, we would like to offer you a job on our combat team. The team members are being selected from various parts of the world as well. If you meet the following conditions, please reply to our messenger and state your acceptance or denial._

_ Applicant must be:_

_Willing to see large amounts of blood and gore._

_Unwilling to murder teammates._

_Advanced knowledge in medical fields._

_Lack of respect for human dignity._

_Dislike the colour red, save for blood._

_Please note you will receive payments and an unverifiable health plan. You must remain dedicated, and hopefully, blood-thirsty. You will be funded for any project pertaining to our advancement. (If a red person approaches you, don't accept. They are EVIL and will trick you!) Good day._

Cruor smiled. He wasn't sure about number five, but this was a decent job sitting on the little sheet of paper. A moment later, he heard a crackling noise, and saw the blue Frenchman appear. He wondered briefly about the "red" comment.

"I take it you accept?" he inquired with a slight accent. A grin was stretching across the messenger's face. He was flipping a knife over and over in his hand.

The medic looked at the man, then at the paper. He'd be paid to do what he did best; carve people up.

"Yes…yes I do," he murmured. He was already imagining the projects he could conduct, with all the funding in the world.

The spy saw someone coming up the tree. He swore, and then vanished. Cruor looked vaguely around for whatever had scared off the Frenchman. He saw a couple of red uniformed men coming up the street. One had an oversized helmet and grenades strapped to his chest. The other one looked almost identical to the blue Frenchman, save for the fact he wore red.

Cruor shoved the letter from this 'blue' team into his the folds of his lab coat. He watched apprehensively as the red men approached. They were muttering to each other, and he caught some of their words as he shrank back inside.

"…said that blue is recruiting a medic. Our teams both don't have medics, so we'll have to hope this guy agrees."

"…don't know…I don't like non-Americans…"

"Be quiet, you imbecile! This man is a genius, they say. Is this the right address?"

Cruor had locked the door and was in the back of his "workshop", sorting through his tools. Recently, he'd developed what he proudly dubbed a "syringe gun", named thus because it launched sharp syringes at high power speeds. Grabbing the device, he held it behind his back and went to the door when he heard knocking. It was the red people, of course.

"Mr. Cruor?" the Frenchman said. The medic decided to call him "spy".

"No, I'm not Cruor," Cruor hissed irritably.

"Well, then are you his twin? Because you look precisely like our rendition of you," the spy said, raising a photo of him. A smirk stretched across the spy's face. Cruor really, really wanted to knock out the man's teeth.

"Vhat do you want?!" Cruor grumbled.

"We wished to…er…offer you a job. Speaking of which, have you seen a man in blue, perhaps dressed similar to myself, come by?"

"No, why?" Simon asked. His face was a perfect, innocent cover, though he could not stop his finger from twitching on his gun's trigger.

Red spy sighed. "Well, Mr. Cruor, we would like to offer a job to you as our medic. You will be offered money, of course."

Simon saw the soldier making vague hand movements at him.

"That sounds…ah…fine," Cruor said truthfully. "May I ask this fine soldier standing behind you why he is making obscene hand gestures at me?"

Cruor did not like these red men. They emanated a different aura from the cool, blue spy. He raised his syringe gun and took aim at the spy's chest. The spy's eyes widened.

"What are you…wait, you wouldn't, not in broad daylight."

"Care to make a bet, Schweinhund?" the medic hissed. He pulled the trigger, burying a bunch of sharp projectiles in the blue spy's chest.

"GAH! You-y-you idiot!" the spy screeched. He pulled out a knife and swung clumsily at Cruor, clutching at his chest. This movement was easily dodged, and caused more blood to fountain out of the spy's chest.

The soldier was now reacting. He pulled a shotgun from his waist and pointed it at the medic, teeth bared.

"Bad choice, _doktorrrrRRAAAAAUUUEEEEERRRG GGGHHhhh!_" the soldier screamed. He keeled over, a knife buried in his back. The blue spy yanked his knife out and stabbed at the red spy, who staggered away, swearing in French.

The blue spy moved elegantly, drawing a gun. In a single swift motion, he plugged the red spy's stomach region with a barrage of bullets. The man, to his credit, was tough. He remained standing upright for a few moments. When he opened his mouth to speak, blood came out, along with a gurgling noise.

There was only one bystander, a 37-year old shopkeeper who decided he had seen and heard nothing.

The red spy took out his gun and fired, lodging a bullet in the blue spy's shoulder. With that, he cursed, and collapsed, dead.

The blue spy clutched at his shoulder, finding it numb and unresponsive. He turned to Cruor.

"A little help? You are a doctor, no?" he gasped out.

"O-of course. Come in. I will test my experimental technique," Cruor murmured, eyeing the wound.

Inside, he had a very early version of what you, dear reader, will know as the medi-gun. It was mounted on a wall. He flicked the switch, and it thrummed with energy. Lights flashed. There was a whirring sound, during which Cruor pushed the spy into a seat, telling him to turn the injured shoulder towards the wall.

The spy looked guardedly at the machine. What was this fancy contraption? It seemed to be emitting light with little particles of dust floating in it.

Cruor laughed maniacally as the device grew louder and louder. With a burst of light and a massive sonic sound, a large beam of blue light washed over the spy, energy diving at any wound, old or new.

The bullet wound was sealed shut by sparks, and the bullet itself shoved out by a rivulet of light. A scar the spy got in a skirmish a couple of years ago sealed shut under a flurry of miniature lightning bolt. Sparkling particles crowded around the Spy's hands, were there were stitches. Those vanished into smooth skin.

The spy stared in amazement, eyes wandering over his healed body. He looked up in awe. His cool eyes locked with the mad doctor's eyes, and he saw the bloody mind of Cruor hiding behind those orbs. The medic. The spy shook his head slowly.

"You, I think, will not need to take a qualification test."


End file.
